Hold My Hand
by electricsymphony
Summary: Perhaps our ingrained longing for love is really just human nature's way of itching at the seams of its most profound evil to find someone in whom it can realize the truest embodiment of acceptance; a mesmerizing twisted fun-house mirror whose depravity reflects and echoes the darkest crevices of its own soul. AU post-3x22; dark & unconventional Stelena.


**Notes: **Hey, guys. This was a one-shot that I _really _needed to get off my chest before I made headway on any of my other stories, and believe or not, it actually kind of helped with the writer's block. I've been dreaming of this concept (Ripper!Stefan teaching Elena how to hunt) since the very last scene of watching 3x22 live (like, it was literally the first thing in my mind right after, 'Holy shit, Elena's a vampire!') However, since this one-shot comes so far after that thought, it didn't exactly go where I was initially thinking it would all the way back then. But that's alright, we change and develop our ideas as we change and develop ourselves. Either way, I think they missed a very interesting opportunity to explore Stelena for the entirely different relationship it could have been had they not made Elena sired to Damon and/or kept Stefan at least partly in his Ripper persona.

Anyway, for all intents and purposes, if I wrote TVD, this is what would've occurred at some point during the 4x0-whatever beginning episodes. Of course, I do not write TVD, so... *wistful sigh* I hope someone out there likes this, as I fear that Stelena fans might not be into a darker side of SE. I really hope you guys prove me wrong. I wrote this all tonight and I'm pretty proud of how much I did in such a short amount of time. I hope you will be too. :)

This story (and its title) were partly inspired by the song 'Hold My Hand' by The Fray. Listening to it might give you an extra understanding of where this story-and Stefan's mindset in this story and especially in the end-came from. ;)

* * *

Elena was on her side, surveying him and the stories he was retelling with a passionate enthusiasm. "Why that particular place? Did you know someone there?"

Stefan shrugged, but his lips pulled into an irritating and a—before tonight—uncharacteristic smirk that Elena was getting all too tired of by this hour of night. "There was nothing special about it, Elena; it was an easy target, an easy hunt. The girls were loose, the alcohol was fantastic and the privacy was supreme. It was excellent feeding grounds, that was for sure," he smiled back wistfully.

"The security couldn't have been all that 'supreme' if it took Rebekah not even a few hours to find out what you were and what you were doing," Elena answered back with a satisfied smile.

"Touché," he teased back at her. They were both lying on the cold, wet grass in a field just outside the Bellwood camping grounds, watching the campsite some yards away in serious study.

At the moment, however, Elena seemed far more engrossed in the retelling of his 1920's adventures as she had long ago turned away from spying on the campsite and now focused all her attention on how Stefan's eyes glittered with excitement as he explained to her the most poignant memories of his Ripper days.

"Do you—" Elena hesitated, not sure how this question would sound to him. "Do you wish for it back?"

He merely raised an eyebrow, surprised by the question. He knew Elena well enough to know that anything but the truth would cause an issue. She was big on trust, and she was annoyingly perceptive when it came to lies. (It was her most annoying characteristic, or at least, it was in this moment.)

"Of course I do, Elena. 'The Ripper' that Klaus has so _'eloquently' _dubbed me as isn't just a figment of my imagination—it's real, it's always there and it isn't going away." His eyes darkened as he intentionally hurt her for making him vocalize this painful subject by adding, "You're a naïve child for even questioning that I might not wish for it back."

"Douchebag," she whispered back, and usually, when they verbally sparred, it was entirely playful, and even though she _attempted_ to replicate the air of playful jabs from a bygone era, he could still see the hurt in the back of her eyes. He waved it off, trying to appear unconcerned.

Stefan's answering smirk made her fingers twitch. "Ah, well… consider this _douchebag_'s feelings hurt." (_'Ouch, well consider this psychopath's feelings hurt.'_) Elena shivered involuntarily in the 85-degree summer breeze and rolled over on her back to avoid the gaze of Stefan's twinkling green eyes, gleaming with mirth and mischief, while she was unable to keep the twinge of red off her cheeks. It was startling how similar the brothers were at times, and even more startling—or perhaps, the _only_ thing that seemed to connect the dots—was the fact that _neither_ of them had the slightest clue. She wondered idly how many other people knew the Salvatore brothers each as intimately as she did, and her mind flickered over the strangled thought of Katherine, and she smiled ruefully—perhaps _that's_ why she loved them both. If Katherine saw the brothers the way Elena saw them—as two just slightly off-color shades of the same person, as two sides of the same tortured, eternal push-and-pull psyche that was no more rational than it was sane—then the elder doppelganger's dueling love for them was _one_ thing Elena could understand about her enigma of an ancestor. Was it even _possible_ to love one Salvatore and not the other? Elena knew with certainty that she never wanted to find out.

She let out the quietest scoff that she assumed Stefan would deem righteous indignation and thought, _Do I even get a choice anymore? _Stefan makes her feel safe; Damon makes her feel consumed by his devotion. It was easy—black and white, cut and dry_, right? _Because of course she's never felt consumed by the way Stefan looks at her as though she's the only breath he dare not waste nor has she ever felt safe in the assurance that Damon would do anything to protect her life. She twitches at her prior stupidity and curses under her breath as she gets up to dust off her shirt. Destiny is a cruel bitch that she hadn't even believed in prior to the culmination of her many different encounters with the Wickery Bridge, but is now the only concept that keeps her from turning on herself rather than nicely pinning it away on random happenstance.

"…Trigonometry? Quantum Physics? The effect of all your missed schooldays on your cumulative GPA?" She snapped her eyes back to Stefan immediately, who looked positively gleeful at her affronted expression.

"What are you babbling about?" She asked impatiently, loathing the smug new addition on Stefan's face that she feared might never go away.

Stefan shrugged, getting up swiftly off the elbow holding him up and suddenly towering over her. "I was considering what you could've been so focused on ruminating about… but knowing you, it could've been a question of diplomatic foreign policy and you would've somehow made it personal."

"Asshole," she muttered and unrolled the sleeves of her shirt.

"An asshole _and_ a douchebag, hmm? What a charming combination," he commented wryly. He tilted his head in playful inquisition, leaned in close to her and whispered, "What does that make _you_, darling?"

"A saint," Elena spat back, unable to contain the grin tugging at her lips; "As in, 'having the patience of'."

Stefan let out a bark of laughter that was ten times more genuine than the annoying smirk that had been residing on his lips for as long as it took to burn the image of its constant harassment into her retina, and her shoulders relaxed just so. Her eyes flickered towards the campsite on the edge of the hill that they had been watching for hours.

"Time's definitely up," she said without much inflection—whether this was merely an indication of her not wanting Stefan to detect her inner turmoil or else her mind's own defense mechanism against ruminating over what they were about to do, she couldn't decide. In the end, she knew it wouldn't matter. Murder is murder, and for murderers, defense mechanisms fade quickly into triviality.

"Give it ten more minutes; I've done this before, and the alcohol lowers their guard. Let them consume more of it," Stefan said with a grave seriousness, his eyes never straying from their heated stare fixed on the tent in the distance.

Elena scoffed, and with a clear, concise conviction, asserted, "You may be more familiar with the protocol of hunting, Stefan, but don't for a second think you've got a one up on me with _teenagers_. If you give them ten more minutes, they'll be inebriated to the point of pass-out drunk, and we both know that wouldn't be any fun for you." She caught his surprised gaze directed at her now, and she couldn't quite blame him. Why, and in what cruel, fucked up twist of fate could her words of unequivocal calm and confidence be conjured only when she was dictating _the best way to murder a bunch of innocent teenagers? _Under his gaze, there was one part of her that wanted to shrink away and hide in the bushes at her blatant uncharacteristic behaviors, but the other half—the part that was more in tune with her vocal chords at the moment, clearly—craved the morbid pleasure that his incredulous stare gave her and answered in return a smug declaration of, '_Don't presume to find me predictable.' _ Did all new vampires experience this strange sensation of split-personality Jekyll and Hyde or was that just another box she could now check off in the 'unique and fucked' category of the supernatural abilities survey? God, _who was she?_

He did not seem to want to grant either of her dueling personalities the gratification of knowing she'd caught him by surprise—the only thing that both her natural human personality and this newly acquired vampiric control-whore nature could agree on wanting—and she glared at him as the smug smirk made its inevitable return. He was so close to her now—she was so transfixed by his stare that she hadn't even noticed him move a single inch—and his breath grazed against her ear in a chillingly pleasant sensation as he whispered, the hot air shallow and gravelly, almost something of a predatory purr, "And what will be fun for _you_, Elena? Would you like to walk in and find bunch of unconscious high-school wastoids or wouldn't that just take all the joy, all the hunt—all the _control_—out of it? Wouldn't it just take all the _fun_ out of it?"

His back was firmly pressed against the sharp edges of a tree in a matter of seconds, and Elena's fangs were bared in warning. "_Don't push me, Stefan. _You won't like what happens."

Stefan smiled, as one would to a patronizing child. "Au contraire, Elena. I think I would actually _love _to see what happens. Admittedly, if you kill _all _of them, I'll feel quite left out," he accentuated his delight at her reaction by nibbling at the helix of her ear and Elena closed her eyes with a moan, almost loosing her footing—it's true what they tell you; sensations as a new vampire feel like an entirely different world. She glared with all the malice she could muster but couldn't even get her vocal chords to function well enough to reiterate some snark back at him.

Suddenly, he was gone, she couldn't feel his chest against hers anymore and just like that, her eyes shot open to find him grinning beside her. He must've sensed her confusion, because he pointed a few yards away to a stumbling and drunk girl coming closer to them. "Mhm, looks like dinner is take-out tonight, walking right towards us; what utter _convenience_."

As Stefan went to approach the blonde, Elena held his arm back violently, a crazed sort of desperation in her eyes. "Stefan, I—" she cut off, the panic in her voice causing her breaths to come out in uneven pants, "can't do this…"

She half expected him to roll his eyes and just push her forward, but he grasped her hand tightly in his own and fixed his intense stare on her. "Elena, you _won't—_do only as much as you can handle, and I'll take care of the rest."

Even though the words themselves in this statement were unnervingly chilling, his gentle conviction was reassuring, comforting, familiar… all the things she'd worried they'd lost. They hadn't lost anything though, she knew suddenly in that one moment of picture-perfect clarity, and as she glanced towards the stumbling blonde and then back at Stefan, she thought with a smile that perhaps they'd gained a few things instead.

She squeezed his hands with a renewed sense of confidence, and asked, "Hold my hand?"

His smile was so genuine that it almost broke her heart in two and re-built it from the ashen debris all with one quirk of his lips. "Always."

The blonde was mumbling something at them, but neither could—nor cared to—decipher the speech as Stefan gave Elena one more comforting glance. Elena grabbed the girl roughly by her shoulders and as her fangs clicked into place, she could hear the thumping of an excited, adrenaline filled heartbeat, and she realized stunned that it wasn't the girl's heartbeat, but rather, _Stefan's_… his eyes were cold and hard, watching the scene unravel with unrestrained glee. He had his head cocked towards the blonde with a smile that Elena could only describe as unsettling. Despite everyone's belief to the contrary, the Ripper was alive and well and loving every single day he got to spend with Elena teaching her the ins and outs of her new nature. She knew her lover well enough to know that it would never truly be gone; she hadn't needed him to say it for her to grasp the concept, despite what he may have thought of her naïvety. The Ripper did not merely live _inside_ Stefan either, it was the highest embodiment of his rage, of his animal, of his _nature._

_And this was hers._

Her fangs cut deep into the dry, sweaty neck of the dizzy blonde and the girl's screams were muffled by both her drunken stupor and how she was choking for dear life against the tight choke-hold Elena had around her chest. It was like a twisted stem of white-hot fire building and blooming into a delicate, bloodied rose up Elena's chest and into her throat, a sense of pride and accomplishment mixing with the tangy deliciousness embedded on her tongue and making her moan with pleasure. It was all encompassing, it washed her brain clean of anything but the immense burst of ego at the girl's helplessness—at _her _hand; someone was more helpless than she _ever_ had been _because of her_ and lord, did that feel both incredibly impossible and impossibly incredible at the same time. All she could think was _further, further, further; more, more, more; just a little bit further__…_It was new, it was foreign—it was _control, _and her body, mind and soul relished in it more than her tongue could even comprehend the blood.

And suddenly, it was nothing. Suddenly, it was pain. It was shock waves of pure ecstasy replaced with sharp barbs of wood digging into her lower back and making her scream out in pain. The strong presence keeping her from flailing was raging, and as she came to reality, she understood—_Stefan. _His eyes were pure red, pulsing with anger, and his hand around her throat caused her to cough out of instinct more so than any physical ramification.

"_They're gone," _he seethed in her face, "_All _of them. They heard the screams and dashed every which way, like fucking chickens with their heads cut off. And _she_—" Stefan gestured towards the immobile blonde girl on the floor, "is dead! Because of you!"

Her mind was so fuzzy; she tried to blink but it didn't clear up any confusion. Was he mad at her for killing the girl or—oh… _oh. _Stefan was a Ripper, he didn't want to kill, he wanted to _destroy. _She had taken that girl and her pulsating, lovely life away from a hungry, ravenous ripper and made the rest of his meal flee in terror. He wanted someone's head on a pike, and for the moment, it looked like it was going to be _hers._

He sneered at her, his face twisting into a horrible disfiguration of displeasure. "Did it get you all hot and bothered to kill her, Elena? Did it?! I watched the whole fucking thing, you were practically grinding on top of her just to get your kick out of dominating her. You say you want the truth, you _value_ the truth_—_you want to know the _truth_, Elena? _You're_ the monster that killed her, not me, and you didn't even give me a _chance _to bite the bullet for you," he finished, lower and even hollowly deflated now.

Elena looked at him, amazed. Then, she laughed. He looked as though he'd been physically smacked in the face. "I know what the truth is, Stefan. I know what I did, who I am now—_do you?"_

Elena looked down where she could see her swollen, throbbing hand encased in his. "Stefan, you're still holding my hand. Were you—were you holding it the whole time?"

This seemed to significantly calm him down and he released the other hand from her throat and looked down at their joined hands and drew back as though he'd been burned. "I—" he sputtered, sufficiently stunned. "I hadn't noticed. You—you asked me to…" His face shrunk from a terrifying animal into a terrified toddler, as if he didn't know what anything meant anymore, as if the tears in the fabric of her sweater he was making with his death-grip were his only tether to meaning while sinking further and further into the depths of his own murky uncertainty. "You—"

"Stefan, look at me." She brought her hands up to cradle his cheeks against her palms, and with all the tact of soothing a traumatized child, whispered, "Kiss me."

The blood of the drunk girl was all over her; on her chest, smeared across her lips, embedded into the crevices of her teeth… Stefan looked at the red substance all over her with awe and trepidation. "Stefan, _kiss me_," she repeated, with more force this time.

And when he did, when he finally let his shoulders slack and his fear slip away, she could feel herself being pushed back up against the tree—gently, this time; the bark against her back was a dull ache, not an excruciating pain. He found her lips and smashed his against them, into what seemed like an aggressive caress of every fiber of her being flushed up against his. He got more aggressive still, but always careful, always gentle even when forceful, and he tugged down his pants with one swift tug at his belt buckle, unbuttoning her jeans as well with the other hand all in one deft movement that she hardly registered in the barely three seconds it took to occur.

She threw her shirt and bra somewhere across her shoulder, and his was already off when she turned back to him, and while his _kisses_ were always sweet and gentle—even when they were bruising and painful—his _entrance_ of her was anything but.

As he thrust into her and her hips canted up to meet his pelvic motion, it was at a bruising and punishing rhythm that she could hardly stand to stop the hot tears pooling in the crevices of her eyes. She held onto him with such force that she knew her nails must be causing his back actual hell, but instead of being disgusted by such a violent reaction, she relished in the very idea of _literally_ tearing at his skin.

She'd heard talk of pain and pleasure and the line that seemed to blur them; it never sparked much of an interest in her. _This, _however, wasn't pain or pleasure and there were no lines drawn, _especially_ not blurry ones. This was decadence and destruction, divinity and depravity, sacred mixed with sin mixed with just that extra thrust of intensity—_Stefan. _It was so much love and torture and uncertainty and conviction that by the time she was reaching her orgasm, she didn't know which direction was up, down, backwards or forewords. She couldn't recall anything other than _Stefan, _and she found that she didn't _need _anything else. In that one solitary moment outside a campground less than three feet away from the first person she'd ever murdered, Elena Gilbert didn't need promises, didn't need security, didn't need truth and couldn't care less about control.

And when they both collapsed on top of each other, breathing ragged and shallow, she saw a look of awe and—perhaps more importantly—of understanding when they locked eyes. "How?" he managed, his voice not full of the trepidation it was before, just genuine wonderment.

Elena smiled, a bright ray of light seeping into his soul through his bewildered eyes, sparking fire to the desolate damp darkness and disarray in the hollow caverns of his mind. "When I asked to hold your hand, I didn't ask _for me. _I asked because I knew you needed me to."

He pulled back from her at once, straightening up, coming to his senses, and his voice was a gruff, coarse question laced with emotion when he asked, "Why?"

She stood up and kissed him, and they both melted into the others embrace before she whispered against his bare chest, "Because one day—maybe not soon—but _one day, _you'll regret these kills. And I figured since I'll be there for it, whenever '_it_' may come, that I might as well take one for the team." A pause, a stronger conviction, a squeeze of her hand in his—when had she reached for his hand?—; "Because that's what we are, Stefan, what we'll always be, no matter what—a _team._"

Stefan frowned at this, ruffling a tired hand through his sweaty, mussed hair. "I've been '_fixed_' before, Elena—it's never worked," he spat out in annoyance, thinking of Lexi and her well-intentioned but ultimately failed methods of 'fixing' him.

Elena shocked him with such a clear, fluid answer that he wondered if he had simply imagined her lips moving and the impossible words that seemed to come out of them. "Well, maybe it's never worked because you've been so focused on fixing yourself that you haven't realized the only thing that needs fixing is your incessant habit of fixing yourself." She pulled his face down to hers, kissed the side of his mouth, and with a smile declared with finality, "And maybe-just _maybe_-it was time for a change; it was time for _me _to 'bite the bullet' for _you._"

Stefan raised his dark eyebrows in genuine surprise, staring at this girl in front of him as if he'd never seen a creature the same species before. She wasn't trying to fix him like Lexi, or dictate him like his Father, or relish in his depravity like Klaus… she just wanted him like only _Elena_ could_, _whoever it was that he wanted to be, so long as it was _him _who wanted to be it.

He looked off into the dark fields around them with an almost tangible anxiety, and smiled warily down at her as he offered his hand, "Hold my hand?"

Her lips quirked in response as she grasped his hand so tightly and he knew she wasn't even a fraction as confident as she had sounded this whole conversation, but with one word, one truth, one echo pulsating beautiful music around his still, undead heart, was the strongest conviction he'd ever heard—"_Always_."

* * *

**Notes: **Thanks for reading, guys! It means a lot to me, and any feedback, constructive criticism or general comments is always wonderfully helpful. :)

P.S. If anyone was reminded of the Katherine/Damon hunting scene in 'Children of the Damned' '1x13' when Elena told Stefan to kiss her, that wasn't unintentional. (I mean, it is me we're talking about here.) Because if Stefan is the other off-color shade of Damon, than so is Elena to Katherine, right? ;) And besides, it's not like Stefan or Elena would know that their behavior paralleled Damon & Katherine's, neither of them were there to witness it, and I think there's some nice poetry in that unintentional (on their part) parallel.


End file.
